Sleeping Dragon a language that makes boats out of our bones

Gavriel had taken his time acclimating to pack life again. Since Seageda, he never quite felt at home. Moving to Trigeda had been a change and their branch had been welcoming, if not confused, but the few followers left of his home had never wavered. They had Seregrýn as a replacement once they were sure of Thuringwethil's death but he hadn't been willing to let that succumb. Now, he had taken up his time in the new empire and tried to act as if things weren't all that different.

Except they are. 

They are on a mountain instead of the seaside, most of these wolves don't understand, and Gavriel isn't entirely sure what to do with himself. He had friends and warriors to work around and now, having hermit himself since the beginning, he's left trying to pick himself back up and pretend Drageda is their new kingdom. In time, it would come; Thuringwethil's confidence had shown, but he still didn't quite feel right.

Gavriel moves along the border, keeping himself busy as he engraves his paw prints into the outer rim of Sleeping Dragon.

@Sangilak